


Below the Sky

by detentionlevel



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, M/M, Remix, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detentionlevel/pseuds/detentionlevel
Summary: Patrice's wings have never grown far enough for him to know if he can fly. Brad finds out in a dream.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Las](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Las/gifts).
  * Inspired by [High Above the Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7558972) by [Las](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Las/pseuds/Las). 



> This is a remix of [High Above the Earth](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7558972) by [Las!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Las/pseuds/Las) Thanks for writing this EXPRESSLY SO I COULD REMIX A WINGFIC LOL jk i hope i even did this close to some sort of justice :DD
> 
> The title is a flip of Las' title but also a really great song by If These Trees Could Talk, which is a great postrock band that a Lyft driver once recommended to me when we got to talking about music one time. :)

The first few times Brad dreams about having wings, he doesn’t think much of it.

Patrice has them, slices them off at the beginning of every offseason, waits the summer out as he heals, and Brad has imagined what they’d look like since Patrice explained the scars, years ago. He’s imagined what would grow out of the angry red welts even as he rubbed salve on them, kissed his way around and over them, as he’s watched Patrice topple around the apartment for the first few days after each surgery. Maybe they’d be built for endurance, like the wings of their angry national bird. Or maybe they’d be delicate and white, shimmering and ethereal (and wouldn’t that be a delight, perfect Saint Patrice with angel wings.) 

His dreams are always hazy, like he’s looking at the world through a dirty pair of Soupy’s old hipster glasses; he can smell trees and the ocean, has a vague sense that there is a path through the woods beneath his feet. There is a weight at his back, and as he flexes his lats, he feels an extra set of muscles moving in ways he knows his dream-self wouldn’t be able to come up with on his own. The dream-sun is blinding, hot on his back. 

Every time, he wakes himself up falling.

Brad jolts awake one bright August morning with his face tucked into Patrice’s chest, hands curled against his cheek; the sun peeking through the blinds in Patrice’s room paints warm stripes on his back. It’s a different sort of warmth from the sensation in his dream, and he wonders.

Patrice rolls onto his stomach as Brad sits up, stretching, but he just groans softly and dozes off again. The angry red welts have oozed through the bandages on his back; Brad knows he’ll wake up in pain, and the tight little ball of worry in his chest tightens. It’s not the first time he’s spent the summer in Patrice’s bed, caring for him despite Patrice’s grumbly protesting. 

A shirt from the pile on the floor, discarded last night; a pair of Patrice’s Bruins shorts from his dresser, a quick stop in the bathroom to piss and Brad is ready to face the day. There are creams and ointments in a basket on the counter by the coffee machine; this has become enough of a routine in his life that he’s learned to make everything as efficient as possible. He flips the switch and starts the coffee brewing, grabs the basket and heads back into the bedroom.

“Hey,” Patrice says with a sleepy smile, and the worry in Brad’s heart eases. Patrice’s bandages still look awful, but the sheet is slung low on his hips, framing the curve of his spine and ass perfectly. Brad takes a long, pleased look before he begins his gentle chirping.

“Bout time you woke up. If only the world knew that their perfect Patrice Bergeron is, in fact, the laziest morning person I’ve ever met.” Patrice’s eyes crinkle into a grin, and Brad deposits the basket on the table, crawling back under the sheet to curl back up against Patrice’s side.

“It’s like 7:30, I checked, you’re full of shit,” Patrice mumbles against Brad’s forehead. His stubble is rough against Brad’s forehead, and Brad can’t bring himself to care.

He thinks about falling all the time, and the way the sun felt on his back.

+

(The dreams stop when the season starts, and thoughts about falling are replaced with fears of falling through the standings and a pressing need to keep the puck out of Tuukka’s net.)

+

The night they’re eliminated from playoff contention is the night the dreams begin again, but this time Brad can actually see.

It starts the same as it usually does, he becomes aware of himself standing in a forest. Light is streaming in from a clearing at the end of the path, the woods around him lush and green and dark. He is barefoot, and the earth is warm beneath his feet; there is rustling behind him, like something is following him through the woods but when he turns, there is no one. 

His feet carry him forward, as always, but instead of being swallowed by the light at the edge of the clearing this time, the dream continues. The clearing is a cliff, overlooking the sea, and Brad recognizes these cliffs; why is he in New Brunswick, close to his one-time home? He is atop the Hopewell Rocks, the Bay of Fundy stretched out before him, iron-grey water battering the rust-brown islands into hourglasses. Far below on the low-tide beach, a lone figure waves up at him. There is no more controlling this dream-body; he can feel himself wave as his wings spread behind him, coming into the periphery of his vision, gold-brown and white feathers fluttering in the breeze.

The sheer physical power he can feel radiates to his core; these wings are not ornaments, nor are they fragile. They are tools, the true inheritance of Patrice’s family, not the half-grown things that sometimes appear on far-flung branches of the family tree. This is what he knows, now; he is seeing this dream through Patrice’s eyes, and in the figure down below on the beach, he is seeing himself.

Patrice can fly. 

Exhilaration rips through his soul, and he’s not sure if it’s his own soul or Patrice’s because in this dream they are twined together, separate and somehow the same; Patrice’s awareness of him thrums through him like blood through their veins as he backs up, takes a running jump, and leaps far out over the sea.

He soars; far below on the beach, he sees himself leap with delight. 

+

There are feathers tickling Brad’s nose when he wakes up, his forehead mashed between Patrice’s shoulderblades. He wraps an arm tight around Patrice’s waist, eyes closed, letting his new knowledge sink deep into his bones.

He will never fly; his family was not blessed with gifts like these. He’s inherited his nose and his size and his tenacity from his parents, and truly, that’s satisfying enough. But Patrice. Patrice will soar someday, and he promised Brad would be there to see it.

Patrice flexes his tiny wings, tucks them against his back to roll over and face Brad, and he grins when he sees the awed look on Brad’s face.

“They always know to come in when we’re done playing, somehow.” He spreads them, and Brad reaches a hand out, a question bright in his eyes. Patrice nods and Brad _touches,_ running fingers gently along the freshly grown framework, downy feathers over muscle over lightest bone. The subtle shiver that wracks Patrice’s body isn’t small enough to escape Brad’s notice.

“You can fly,” Brad assures him, and Patrice’s eyes widen.

“I know,” he says softly. “I think I’ve known for a while.”

“I dreamed it last night. I’ve been dreaming it for a couple years, but it’s always hazy, and you always fell. A long fall, not jumping-off-the-woodshed falling.”

“That’s my dream. You were there,” Patrice sighs, eyes closed. Brad rests his fingers on Patrice’s clavicle, and they lay together, lost in thought, the pulse in Brad’s fingers falling into sync with Patrice’s heartbeat.

“What if…” Brad starts, hesitant; the curiosity in Patrice’s eyes encourages him to continue. “What if you didn’t wait until retirement? It’s so early this year, we have so much time…”

“They do grow pretty fast,” Patrice muses, and Brad’s eyes light up. “Yeah, maybe…”

“I’ll take you to New Brunswick. We can roadie, yeah? There’s some amazing food places and dumb shit to see in Moncton, we can visit my billet parents, I’m gonna show you Magnetic hill, it’s so touristy and hilarious; and there’s smaller spots we can test out before Hopewell. Have you been to Hopewell? It’s so cool, we used to go after school and just dick around…”

“Yeah,” Patrice says with a grin, tipping Brad onto his back. “That sounds amazing.”

The gold feathers cresting Patrice’s wings glint in the early morning sunlight as Patrice leans down to kiss him, and Brad’s eyes water at the sight of it; everything is overwhelming, and it’s already his favorite offseason yet.


End file.
